


The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves

by acaramelmacchiato



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, incest is mega illegal in gondor so you'd better not try it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir and Faramir love not wisely but too well, and face the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblr user sathinfection/ao3 user sath for being my Official Incest Consultant. I could not have done this without the countless vines she offered when when I was about to sink in incest quicksand. Good consulting, pal. 
> 
> Couple more things ... my usual brand is, you know, lighter comedy and less explicit fraternal incest so, be aware of that. 
> 
> Also please be aware that although I made the moronic decision to write from Boromir's POV, robbing myself of the chance to lovingly describe how hot he is, throughout this story he is smoking hot.

 

“Oh,” said Faramir, when Boromir reached to embrace him. “Must we?”

 

“Yes of course,” said Boromir, and handed his reins and helmet to his squire. His horse was sweating. “Don’t be snide. Men make their lives from their rituals. So, tell me welcome home, and then we will embrace. Right here,” he was grinning. “In front of everybody.”

 

Faramir shook his head, and finally he laughed and put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “Welcome home, then, brother. It has been too long.”

 

When Faramir seemed to relax, Boromir struck, grabbing him under the arms and spinning in an unchecked circle. By the time Faramir got his feet on the ground they were both laughing. The squire stood still, holding the reins as his lord ground his knuckles into his brother’s hair.

 

“I am pleased to find you in such _rude_ health,” said Faramir, standing up and hitting dirt off his knees.

 

“I was,” said Boromir, “but no longer. Lifting you up like that has convoluted my spine. You!” He addressed the squire, tossing some money at him, slow and underhand. “I’ve got it from here, take some time to yourself. My brother can still lead me out of a cuirass, even if he doesn’t wear one. Buy yourself some -- hmm, Faramir, give him a suggestion. Pudding. New gloves. Theater tickets. Bet on an unlikely cock.”

 

“He’d rather get drunk,” said Faramir. “So give him some extra.”

 

“Well, you would know better than I, what is the price of a debauch in the city these days,” said Boromir, and then he counted out some silver for his squire and sent him on his way. They turned inward from the courtyard, to a steeply graded stair that would take them to the sixth level of the city. “Or rather you wouldn’t. I heard they are keeping you well imprisoned in Ithilien. How came you to civilization?”

 

“Our father has recalled me,” said Faramir, with a flippant tilt of his chin, “for the time being.”

 

Boromir stripped off his gloves, revealing as he did so that the palm of his left hand was injured, and tied with a bloody bandage. “And your company?”

 

“I daresay they will muddle through somehow without me,” said Faramir, looking with interest at his brother’s hand. “Did your horse bite you?”

 

“My horse loves me,” said Boromir, putting him off, and then: “Recalled alone? What is the meaning of it?”

 

Faramir gave him a quick look without moving his head. “Not alone,” he said lightly, “now you are come also.”

 

Boromir put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, pulling him close at the foot of the stair. “Then I am overdue,” he said, into Faramir’s ear. Then he moved to a more natural distance. “Come with me, I must salute our lord and father, and it will go better for you if you show your face to him more often.”

 

“I will not,” said Faramir, and smiled, which was typical. “I should hope even you would think less of me if I sought combat I can only plan to lose.”

 

* * *

 

So Boromir bowed to his father alone, in the throne room of the Tower of Ecthelion. Sunlight cut through the windows from the east, and so revealed that there was dust in the air from the ceiling to the floor.

 

Denethor was quiet for a moment, savoring his son’s obedience.

 

When he spoke, Boromir straightened up with a quiet rattle of armor and met his eyes. Denethor smiled.

 

“Captain Boromir,” he said, and stood, spreading his arms. “I will not keep you long from your rest, except to say welcome home, my son. Come, embrace me.”

 

“Forgive me,” said Boromir. “I am still armored.”

 

“I do not mind it!” Denethor replied, and put his arms around the hard steel plate of his son’s torso. “So pleased am I to have you here, and safely, I would embrace you if you wore spikes.” He moved back, and saw with surprise Boromir’s ungloved left hand, the bandage stained brown from the ride. “You are wounded. How did it happen?”

 

“It is nothing,” said Boromir, moving his hand into a fist to show that it worked. “An accident, and I am happy to be back.”

 

“I am happier. I have read the reports of your campaign with interest and anxiety -- you have done your work well. The commanders of your cohorts are lodged with the tower guard, so you may have ready access to them. Now be off, have your wound seen to, and rest while I can spare you, and your officers also.”

 

Boromir lowered his head. “I will,” he said, and turned to depart, ashamed that his father thought he could flatter him.

 

“Your brother is in the city,” said Denethor, before Boromir was halfway to the door. 

 

“Yes,” said Boromir, and stopped walking. “I have seen him already.”

 

“Before your lord and father?” said Denethor gently, and for a long heartbeat Boromir was frozen stiff. Then Denethor laughed, and waved him off. “Never mind,” he said. “I know how the two of you are. Remember that I am proud of you, and so glad to have you home, and I will call for you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

“I suspect I have oversold your skill to my squire,” said Boromir. He was in his brother’s apartment, with its west-facing windows opened to admit the still summer air, watching sideways as Faramir struggled to unknot the arming points at his left shoulder. “Shall we hunt him down, sober him up, and ask him to do it?”

 

“The knot’s stuck,” said Faramir shortly.

 

“Seems like it.”

 

“Get it off yourself then, you ass,” said Faramir, and then the knot came free.

 

“Why would I, when plainly all you needed was the motivation?”

 

Faramir took the plate armor off in silence, and Boromir allowed it, deciding that it was early yet to continue needling him.

 

The summer sunlight was the promising golden color of an early afternoon. But Faramir’s traceried windows were narrow and thick-paned, so it was dark no more than three feet into the room. His tapestries, scenes of Ar-Pharazôn and the ship Alcarondas, hung in blue shadows on the walls. Boromir shifted toward the light, forcing Faramir to follow him before he tugged off his brother’s heated mail.

 

Faramir had been in Minas Tirith for more than a week and, uncharacteristically, had not made much of a mess to show for it. He had a map out on his desk, and a tray of letters ready to go out with the morning riders. There was a stand brought in for Boromir’s armor, but no sign of his own. This simplicity in his brother’s cabinet, and the coolness of the room now that his armor was airing out on the stand, felt calm and ordered.

 

“Hot out?” said Faramir, raising his eyebrows at the deep sweaty stains spreading from the collar and the arms of Boromir’s gambeson.

 

“We rode, armored, for hours, and it’s summer,” said Boromir, twisting to look at his back before Faramir could. “So what do you think?”

 

“These are trying times.” Faramir started unbuckling the gambeson. “Shall I have some water brought in for you to drink? I only have what I used to shave this morning.”

 

Boromir laughed at that. “You used! Be grateful that you are a rich man’s son, brother. If you had to shave yourself you would be light a nose. At least. A head at worst.”

 

“It is said that I am less grateful than I could be,” said Faramir. “Did you get the whole story from him?”

 

Boromir felt the heat return fast, and he turned his head, ashamed. “I regret we did not speak of you -- our audience was short. I must hear it direct, then, what has transpired here?”

 

Faramir drew open Boromir's gambeson, and left him apologetic for a moment before he smiled.

 

“I’m teasing you. There’s no secret. He is rotating captains through Ithilien, for their energy he says, but I think, he does not like the idea of his soldiers so long alone, without his paternal guidance.”

 

Boromir, dressed now only in his shirt, swore at that. “Did you tell him so?”

 

Faramir gave him a gentle look, like he was stupid. “Somehow, you confuse Boromir and Faramir,” he said. “My duty is to be obedient. And yours is to make our father moderate.”

 

“I will counsel him tomorrow then, and harshly,” Boromir promised. He reached out and pinched Faramir’s chin. “Cheer up. All will be well, now we are both home.”

 

“I believe it. Now get out. It is early yet, and we are both busy.”

 

Boromir held on. “But I will find you tonight,” he said. “And we will talk.”

 

“I should like that,” Faramir began to say, but then his door had opened, and the page who opened it made himself known by tripping on the carpet.

 

Boromir dropped his hand. His brother turned quickly to face the window.

 

* * *

 

Denethor had the windows in his study shut against the late eastern sunset.

 

The seeing-stone was shrouded for the day’s business, which was soon to be completed. He had an obligation to consult it. He could cut short his calendar -- the stone was right there, at rest behind his desk, and it had kept its secrets all day. He was reaching for it when he heard the knock on his door.

 

“Enter,” he said, and when no one did he yelled it.

 

In came two men, one of the tower guard and one of Boromir’s own company, and the doors were shut behind them. After a moment’s uncertainty, they genuflected and bowed their heads.

 

“Stand up,” said Denethor, and they did, trying not to look at one another.

 

“My lord steward,” said the first of them. They were young men, and tall, like his sons, but with very little of their guile. This pleased him, for he had made up his mind to rely on them.

 

“Tell me your names,” he said, and as he said it he heard the first spattered drops of rain on the window behind him.

 

“Hamborn,” said the first, and nudged his fellow when he did not follow.

 

“And Hamrod, my lord,” said the second. "We are cousins."

 

Denethor lifted both eyebrows. “I have a task for you,” he said. “And in this you are answerable only to myself, and not to your captain-general, for he is suspected, and his brother.”

 

He saw them flinch in shock, and try to conceal it. No guile in them at all. He leaned in and told them more.

 

“You must make a report for me, and in it say where do Boromir and Faramir go tonight. If they are separate or together, and if together, you will tell me, what is the nature of it.” 

 

* * *

  

Boromir woke late; he had been to his bed late and reasoned that he deserved it.

 

When his valet came in at his customary six o’clock and called out, “Sire, it is time,” Boromir berated him until he left. Then he buried his face in the bolster for a further three hours.

 

By then sunlight had found its way even through his bed curtains.

 

When he freed himself both from his dreams and the skillful tangle of sheets he’d trapped himself in, he found the day ideal. It had rained overnight, and fiercely, but so late in the morning the sunlight had warmed all but the last traces of it away. When he opened the windows, he heard the gentle and familiar noises of the doves that lived in his eaves. He had been a boy in this room, and in all that time, never so happy as he was now to be home.

 

It was noon before he made it into his mail and down the city to the lists. Faramir, who had very likely arrived only minutes before, treated him as delinquent.

 

“There are only about three practice swords left in the armory, and they won’t hold the ring much longer,” he said, shoving one into Boromir’s hands, and then a dented brass buckler. “Late night?”

 

Boromir scowled, following him into the ring. “So speaks its author,” he said. “The rest of us did not raise ourselves on white nights spent journaling about the fall of Númenor.”

 

“Apparently not,” said Faramir, “or you would have been on time.”

 

They had arrived at the center of the ring, and Faramir saluted him before he had the chance to respond.

 

“Be on your guard,” shouted the master at arms, from the side. “Are you both ready? Then go on,” and turned away to let them adjudicate the bout themselves.

 

Boromir, still feeling cheated out of a retort, swung his sword at his brother’s head. It accomplished very little beyond his immediate satisfaction, as Faramir ducked in plenty of time and punched him in the stomach with his buckler.

 

Boromir laughed, and did not lose a second’s breath from it.

           

The bout went on in this fashion long enough for the master at arms to lose interest entirely, and he left behind a group of some squires who were betting on the results. Boromir recognized a few who were in service to his friends. He smiled at them while he stymied his brother with a high guard.

 

“Place your bets wisely, lads,” he called out. “For I will remember your faces!”

 

“And who is the wise bet, Lord Boromir?” one of them replied, and his friends laughed in horror at his boldness.

 

He started to reply, but then Faramir drove his sword-hilt toward his crotch. So Boromir threw his shield to the ground, and took hold of the blade, and his brother’s hand with it.

 

“You think you are too fast for me, little brother,” said Boromir, and wrenched him around, so they struggled within the space of a few declining inches. “But you never are.”

 

There was no room for Faramir’s shield, so he threw it away and tried to hit Boromir’s nose with his elbow. It left the whole of his torso unprotected, and Boromir, who had his own sword at his disposal, gave him a heavy blow below his waist. 

 

While the squires were in an uproar, Faramir spun free of him with a wordless shout of frustration.

 

“They will put on your tomb, brother,” he said, visibly composing himself. “’Here lies Boromir, son of Denethor, who having lived for the below period of time, could never resist a blow to another man’s groin.’”

 

Boromir laughed, and feinted low. “Then our tombs will match,” he said. “For you have the same tendency.”

 

Faramir got him full in the back with his blunt sword, and before he could react, behind the knees.

 

For a moment, it seemed that it would be Boromir who would fall. But he knew his brother better than any man living. Faramir had chosen his habits early and held onto them. He kept his index finger over his crosspiece, he underestimated Boromir’s reach, and even after so many years of experience otherwise, he always thought he could outsmart him.

 

Boromir fell forward and brought them both to the ground, and although it was not particularly inventive Faramir was surprised. He dropped his sword well out of the way as he saw it happening, electing to lose the bout rather than risk skewering his brother.

 

They hit the ground in a clatter of mail. Faramir had the worst of it, and lay coughing between his brother and the dirt, trying to get his arms under him.

 

“Never mind,” said Boromir, getting up. He gave Faramir a second to breathe before hauling him upright, and then patted him on the back. “You’ll have me next time.”

 

“I yield, incidentally,” said Faramir, quietly, but the squires heard it and performed some rapid commerce.

 

“I assumed,” said Boromir. “As I am still holding my sword. And very easily, with little temptation, could have performed the ritual you call shaving, that is, cutting your head off.”

 

Faramir laughed at that, and picked up his sword. “Next time, then,” he said.

  

* * *

 

 

Denethor spent the night awake. For hours at a time he was certain that he was wrong, and for these hours he could have wept with gratitude.

 

But then the illusion ebbed and left him alone. His fire was embers and smoke, at the edge of his window the dark sky had become gray; he knew he was right, he would do his devoir.

 

The sun had not risen when he took a company of his praetorians to the door of his younger son.

 

“Do not knock,” he said, stepping back behind them. “Open it and enter.”

 

They did not conceal that they were dismayed, but they did their duty without protesting and put their shoulders into the door. It was unlocked and gave way easily.

 

Denethor strode inside.

 

The shame could have brought him to his knees. Even he was not prepared for the sight of his sons, taken by surprise from their sleep, their faces innocent with shock. They were hastening from Faramir’s bed in lowly undress, trying to make sense of him, and the four praetorians at the door. Only a moment before they had been asleep in an embrace of purposeful intimacy, Boromir’s fingers gently tangled in his brother’s hair.

 

Faramir opened his mouth first, and Denethor shouted at him to be silent. Boromir, still half asleep, had put himself in his accustomed place, between his brother and his father’s displeasure.

 

“Father?” he said, and because it was Boromir, Denethor let him speak. “And you, gentlemen, what do you mean by this?”

 

Faramir said his brother's name, quietly, and put his hand on Boromir’s naked shoulder to stop him from saying more. It made Denethor’s blood burn in anger, for he would have let Boromir speak further in his defense.

 

“Is it not enough,” he said to Boromir, “that you break our laws -- the laws you have sworn to uphold and defend, which your ancestors themselves have written, and flaunt it also, treating the city to your disregard -- but now you would deny it? Or tell me you were not about to deny it! I will believe you, if you say so now.”

 

“I do not know, sir,” said Boromir, still bewildered, and before he said more his eyes flickered to catch his brother’s, “what laws I have broken.”

 

Denethor hit him in the face. Boromir, who had been hit by much worse than his father’s ungloved hand, took it easily, so Denethor hit him again, and again, until he lost a portion of his balance, and Faramir helped him stand. His nose was bleeding, and at last he looked totally awake. When he lifted his left hand to his nose, Denethor saw his unbandaged injury, not yet healed over. He had an instinct of fatherly sympathy, and suppressed it.

  
“Do not make me say it,” Denethor hissed. “You will not make me shameless as well. Here is the warrant; read it in your cell. Wait a moment before you arrest them,” he said to the praetorians, and then turned back to his sons in disgust, “so they may dress themselves.”

 

His sons were taken out of the bedroom and Denethor was left behind, unwilling to follow. They had kept the dark curtains around Faramir’s bed bundled up and the windows open, anticipating the sweet summer day. He heard the doves waking outside, and saw the pale shadows of the fair morning on the floor.

 

He had always looked for their mother in these graceful details of nature, and in moments of stillness. It would be worse for her, to know what they had done, and so it was good that he was alone.

 

He stopped his thoughts of her, and put his hand on Faramir’s bed. He pulled back the yellow silk and the coverlet with its gilded stars, gifts from himself and from their mother, given so long ago, in happy times -- but how long had this gone on, he wondered, in front of his own eyes, in defiance of his laws and every command of nature? Revulsion made him more curious, and he looked down to find blood smeared on the bolster, and here and there on the white sheets.

 

He thought of Boromir’s wounded hand, how heedless he must have been and why, and he shouted out the window with anger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I tried for like a whole 30 minutes to think hard about military hierarchy in Gondor and then, clearly, I totally gave up.  
> 2\. Incest Consultant Sath is responsible for 100% of the armor words, even "armor"  
> 3\. Hamborn and Hamrod are cousins. They live at the Hamfast. Hamborn's father's name is Hamwen. They do not enjoy ham.  
> 4\. "Sire, it is time" was the customary phrase used to wake the king at versailles so like, in case you missed that Boromir is the fanciest guy in gondor  
> 5\. Sorry Lancelot! I'm just kidding I'm not sorry! This is a fanfiction about courtly incest love.


	2. Chapter 2

  _One month ago..._

 

 

The desert of Harondor was hot throughout the year, and in summer the sun was always close. Boromir had put his legionary encampment along the river, as far inland as they could get and still receive boats, and even so close to water the heat was unjust and unrelenting. In his three months’ engagement he had cause to petition his father four times for an ever-increasing ration of water for the men and horses.

 

The history of Gondor had built a fond mythology and collective memory of the region, and in fact there was colossal beauty in the landscape. It was in the delta far downriver with the thick papyrus sedge and flowers cluttering the shores, and in the wide horizon where the sunset spread out for miles. At first he described only these details in his letters, below the military realities, but as the days doubled and weeks lengthened he grew more morose about it.

 

 _Faramir_ , he would write, _I know now that the end of the world will be very hot & exceeding loud. The heat here has a sound, it is the drone of insects. They are most raucous when the nights are the hottest. Since surely the heat will kill me, remember me as I was, not half-mad from the sound of grasshoppers & half-drowned in my own sweat. I long to be cool as much as I long to be alone with you. Good night, then, and think of me._

They were engaged in battle once in three months. Boromir spent his time petitioning to return, and even the mail was slow.

 

On a certain evening he was entertaining himself with his officers, enduring the long sunset before darkness relieved a portion of the heat. He listened without interest to their conversation.  

 

“A scant century of rangers? They are not sufficient to it,” said one of his tribunes. “Ithilien is our least protected and our closest border.”

 

“My brother commands in Ithilien,” said Boromir, feeling anger as well as the heat swell his veins. “I desire that you recant.”

 

His officers kept their eyes down.

 

“My lord General,” said the tribune, his eyes wide, “I spoke no slander of your brother, and what’s more, nothing that is not true.”

 

“I charge you to recant, and you contradict me?” Boromir rose abruptly to his feet. He had drunk more than he remembered, and put his hand on the table.

 

“Please,” said one of his older officers, “my lord, he meant no offense, and said little to offend. We shall sit in silence or leave you be, whatever pleases you.”

 

Boromir made one attempt to calm himself, closing his eyes and breathing slowly out. It failed.

 

“It is rank timidity that you think I will be flattered by you,” he said, and struck his fist on the table. “But it is not because I am your lord that I do not suffer to hear my kin insulted, it is because I a man. Alone a man, I think! You, tribune, you are a villain, and there is sunlight left. Have you your sword? Outside, then, and let us settle this.”

 

The tent was utterly silent, and they heard the sound of the insects outside.

 

Boromir left the tent, his sword girt on, in his gambeson and thin gloves, and no one could make him stop. The tribune was outside a second later, and the rest of the officers.

  
They were calling after him.

 

“My lord Boromir, he spoke out of his place, but he meant no insult, and it is well known that no one can equal your skill with a sword, have pity, we beg you.”

 

“In this heat, who can make a sound decision? Why not leave it, until our heads are cooler?”

 

“You will not regret mercy, my lord, but may well regret another outcome.”

 

He felt a hand on his arm, and shook it off.

 

“Leave me!” he said. “You embarrass yourselves with this whining.”

 

The second the tribune had his sword up Boromir came at him running, and made his strike from high to low. It put off his balance so unexpectedly that, when his target spun out of his way, Boromir followed his sword to the dirt and fell to one knee. He removed himself from this humiliating posture awaiting a riposte, but none came.

 

“Well?” he said, and charged after the tribune, but again his balance was poor. He was a second away from tripping over his own footwork, and sought to compensate.  Bringing up the hilt of his sword, he grasped the blade fully with his left hand, to end the duel quickly with a sword poised at his opponent’s neck. The tribune at last put up his sword to protect himself with a ringing parry, but he was not strong enough, and Boromir pressed in, feeling the familiar satisfaction of victory.

 

Then his left hand stung, and looking at it he saw that the near edge of his sword had gone straight through his kidskin glove. His hot blood raced down the fuller, and dripped from his own blade to the dirt.

 

Boromir felt only confusion. He was a careful fencer, since he loved to win. Had he truly forgotten the gauntlet for his left hand? He had a pair of them in his belt. He could hear his own harsh breathing over the sound of the grasshoppers, and the sky had grown darker.

 

“Come,” said a voice, unfamiliar with gentleness, and Boromir’s gory left hand was taken from his blade. “I pray you retire, my lord, and let it be the end of this.”

 

It was Hamborn, one of his captains, and his trusted friend, and on his face was a wooden and unaccustomed expression. He took Boromir to his tent. Inside it was dark, but no cooler, and he lit another lamp.

  


“You are not yourself,” said Hamborn, “for I have a long acquaintance with Boromir of Gondor, he is neither brutish nor stupid. And so he would never attack a man, his inferior who fears to strike him, for an imagined insult, when he is too befuddled to swing his sword.”

 

Boromir lifted his eyebrows. “You make it difficult to tell,” he said, “but I think you are angry with me.”

 

Hamborn sat down with a long sigh.

 

Later Boromir’s manservant woke him to clean up his hand and tug off his boots.

  
“Of all men, he does not deserve to be demeaned, ” Boromir said to him, unprompted. “And I cannot tolerate to see it happen.”

 

“My lord, who?” said the manservant. Hamborn, slouched on a bench, snorted and awoke.

 

“Faramir,” Boromir spoke the name gently. “My brother, in whose defense I happily will fight any man, save the one who most commonly and most cruelly offends him. But I am still well-armed against our father, since I will not fight him to make him account for his words, I will wound him with myself, and what I am, a coward and a -- leave me, please. I am befuddled, I am only fit to be alone.”

 

“I will put out the lamps,” said the manservant, and doing so, left him with only Hamborn. Boromir looked for a long time at the dark ceiling of the tent, and listened to the insects, and wished himself home.

 

In three days, as if he had read his son’s mind or heard his prayers, the Steward of Gondor ordered their camp in Harondor burnt and Boromir to return his company to Minas Tirith.

 

* * *

   


He rode hard for home, ahead of his legions, along with two captains and his standard-bearers.

 

“My lord,” one of them shouted, and pulled his sweating horse up alongside Boromir’s, “I pray you slow down, for the sake of the horses.”

 

Boromir nodded, and he slowed. His mood was good, and better as they rode closer to Minas Tirith. “I am too eager to be home,” he said, laughing at himself. “And my brother is in the city. I am impatient for his company.”

 

“Of course,” said the captain. “Your fraternal love does you great credit.”

 

“I doubt my horse would agree, still, I confess I would ride a tumbril into town if it could take me faster.”

 

Against his instinct, Boromir slackened his pace, and within two hours they were riding through the gates.

  
Faramir was waiting for him. Boromir saw him first, standing inattentively with a hand between the sunlight and his eyes. When Boromir rode up in his bright armor, Faramir turned fully away.

 

“We have won the war then?” said Faramir, turning around to take the reins that Boromir threw down to him, “now that every one of our enemies to face you is blind?”

 

Boromir dismounted, laughing too loud. “There is more strategy to it than that. Give me those reins, you’re not the hostler. And embrace me, I have been three months away, and waiting.”

 

* * *

  


It was raining when Hamborn and Hamrod left the office of the Steward, and they did not speak to one another until they were down the stairs and out of sight of Denethor’s high window.

 

“It’s my fault,” said Hamborn, “for being so unlucky. My traitor ancestor has a long shadow, and my family’s arms are stricken from the chronicles, not yours. It is better I should do this alone, so when Captain Boromir kills me, there will be no great loss.”

 

“Surely Captain Boromir will kill me too,” said Hamrod, and then grew quiet. “Do you think there is any truth to it?”

 

“What, that the sons of the Steward have committed -- have known,” Hamborn was unwilling to choose a word, “they have always been uncommon close,” he said, voice falling lower so that Hamrod had to strain to hear him over the rain. Boromir was his captain and his friend.

 

But he was thinking of Boromir’s hand on his sword because he imagined Faramir insulted. And later, when Hamborn stood outside his tent, Boromir mumbling to his manservant, _I will wound him with myself, and what I am, a coward and a_ \-- Denethor, who had suspicions fully formed, would have taken those words as proof.  

 

“Whatever else,” said Hamrod, “it is going to be a long night, and a wet one.”

 

Hamborn pulled the hood of his cloak forward, and water drained onto his nose.

 

Boromir’s apartments were on the third floor of the Citadel building where his family lived, facing east, with only a small lawn interrupting his view. Hamborn and Hamrod stood outside, at a distance in the grass, and found Boromir’s familiar room easily. It was lit and empty, with the curtains tied neatly back, displaying the bright bedroom like an untrafficked stage.

 

“Will he see us?” Hamrod asked.

 

“It is dark outside, and light within,” said Hamborn, regretfully. “We are as good as invisible.”

 

For a full half hour the room remained empty, except for the progress of Boromir’s small household staff, lighting his fire and preparing his bed. Hamborn felt his cloak begin to soak through, and moved closer to Hamrod, who was frowning up at the dripping yellow windows.

 

Boromir was there at last, and Faramir also, saying something that made them both laugh before he finished speaking. They came close to the window, and Hamborn hoped Boromir would draw the curtains.

 

But instead he sat on the sill, and leaned back, close enough to his watchers so that Hamborn could see his hair catch on the bar traceries separating the panes. His shoulders were flush against the glass, shaking as he laughed at something, and Faramir was so close in front of him that he must have stood between his brother’s knees.

 

“Draw your curtains, my friend,” Hamborn whispered. But Faramir had moved closer still, one hand in Boromir’s hair and the other on his shoulder, their faces angled to meet. Boromir turned his neck, displaying his profile, and he was smiling a little as his younger brother kissed him, in this criminal act happier than he had been three months in Harondor.

 

Hamrod drew in a sharp breath of shock, but said nothing.

 

Faramir was hauling off his brother’s shirt. It caught on Boromir’s chin, and Faramir said something while rolling his eyes, then yanked sharply to free him. The sunburnt, naked skin of Boromir’s shoulders was spreading steam on the windowpanes, until he leaned forward to subject Faramir to the same, but more skillfully; he pulled at the sleeves, upended the shirt to draw it off in one motion, and then threw it, laughing, at his brother’s face.

 

“It is enough,” said Hamborn, and then cleared his throat, putting his hand on Hamrod’s wet shoulder. “We should withdraw, we have seen enough.”

 

“But the Steward has asked us,” said Hamrod, “to witness a _definitive act_.”

 

Hamborn moved his hand inside his own cloak, and looked at the wet grass to avoid Boromir and Faramir’s laughing kisses. “I am a gentleman, by some reckoning, and some little courtesy remains in me. Boromir is our lord and captain, I say what we have seen will serve. Let us withdraw.”

  

* * *

   


Boromir had expected his captains to take their leisure more seriously, at least for a day. So the next morning he was surprised to find Hamborn, wide awake and watching him. He was in the lists with the squires, performing an uncharacteristic impression of a man skulking, and his staring eyes were weary and slow to blink.

 

“You look tired, my friend,” said Boromir to him, beating the dust from his clothes. “Faramir, does our good friend Hamborn not make the perfect portrait of a weary man?”

 

“Or you tire him,” said Faramir, and he took Boromir’s blunt sword from him to return it to the armory.

 

“No, it is nothing, I only spent a sleepless night,” said Hamborn, and rubbed his chin. “It was the rain, I was kept awake.”

 

Boromir put an arm around Hamborn’s shoulders as they watched Faramir go. “I was grateful for it, there was none of it in Harondor, and as you well remember, I was going mad. What thought you of our bout?”

 

“Admirable,” said Hamborn, but he said it distractedly.

 

Boromir was not in the habit of drawing secrets from others, and he did not care to make Hamborn’s bad mood his business. Another time he would have left it, and he was without the skills to interrogate him, but for an instant he saw something in Hamborn’s eyes, or smelled it like one of his dogs finding a rat from the stench of its fear, and Boromir was convinced that he knew.

 

“You are not usually so laconic,” he said, and he removed his arm from Hamborn’s shoulders. “What kept you from your sleep, my friend?”

 

Hamborn met his eyes, and Boromir felt himself struck with a thunderbolt, his breath locked in his lungs. In Harondor, Hamborn had dragged him from a fight he only half-remembered -- what had he said that night, and had he caused Hamborn to suspect him?

 

But then Hamborn unburdened himself: “My lord Boromir. I must beg you for a favor.”

 

And Boromir drew breath again in relief.

 

“My friend,” he said, and clasped a hand to his elbow. “Have I not always been your champion? Say on, if it is in my power to grant you what you want, I will do so in an instant.”

 

“Leave the city,” said Hamrod. “I can beg you, but I cannot explain.”

 

Boromir raised his eyebrows. “Already I am not inclined to give you your favor, Hamborn! For what reason, and for how long? We have just arrived, and I love Minas Tirith, as you know.”

 

Hamborn took Boromir’s hands in his. “You know I would not ask it if it were not of great importance. Leave with me tonight, and I will reveal the reason on the road.”

 

 “Reveal the reason now,” Boromir said, “and I will answer directly.”

 

They had walked to the outside wall of the armory, which was private and shaded, and Hamborn went to his knees in the grass.

 

“I must go tonight to the Hamfast,” he said, referring to the half-ruined castle where he was born, in the northern swamps of Gondor. His voice halted, and gained confidence. “I have received word only this morning, my father is dying -- not as it has been, but in earnest now -- and with each day that remains to him begs to let our name be reconciled once more with Minas Tirith. If you would go with me, and see him, you know I would gladly owe you more than my life.”

 

Boromir nodded, pleased to have solved the mystery. He put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and compelled him to his feet.

 

“I cannot,” he said. “Though I will write tonight and convey to your father Hamwen all my good wishes and friendship. Your name will be restored yet, I promise you, in your lifetime and with my help.”

 

“I will happily beg you,” Hamborn, still intent. “If I could exchange your friendship for one thing it would be this, go with me tonight. If I can pay for this favor, in service or in blood, I will, only say you will leave --”

 

“Your insistence does you credit,” said Boromir, “for I know that you never liked the old man. But I cannot go tonight. I have an engagement, which I would never miss, not even for such a friend as you are to me.” 

 

* * *

  


The engagement was in his brother’s bedroom.

 

“I have put out Hamborn more than a bit to be here,” said Boromir when they were alone. “But, I think, you would have done the same for me.”

 

“Put out Hamborn?” Faramir rolled his eyes. “You know I would. In an instant.”

 

“His father is dying, he said.”

 

“Oh, Hamwen has been dying our entire lives. He was dying before you were born,” said Faramir, briskly. His lamps were lit, and filled the room with a steady golden light. It made even his blue tapestries of Ar-Pharazôn look cheerful. “But if it is true, let that remind you that we have but little time, and you and I have lost months of it.”

 

Boromir sighed, and put his hands lightly on his brother’s hips. “You have forgotten last night in a hurry.”

 

“I forget nothing,” said Faramir, and lifted the hem of Boromir’s shirt from his trousers.

 

Eager to please him, Boromir moved his hands and lifted his own shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. With Faramir, he was the most generous man alive, and would not have recognized himself as he had been just weeks ago.  

 

“We two are not meant to be apart,” he said, his mouth moving against Faramir’s cheek. “I have seen soldiers return to their beloved wives from long campaigns, and even those happy few are less happy than I am to see you now.”

 

Faramir sighed, and bowed his head, and put his hands down the back of Boromir’s trousers. “Soldiers come home faster to their wives. You know I have a letter from you, in my desk behind the lock, which says in your hand that you long to be alone with me. And yet you were three days behind your messengers.”

 

“It takes time to break a camp,” said Boromir. “But still I came very quickly.”

 

“I have not forgotten last night at all,” said Faramir. “Yet you keep reminding me.”

 

“You are spreading an infamous rumor, even between brothers. Let me show you that it was otherwise!” Boromir was still half-laughing as he tugged Faramir’s clothes off, and when he had finished Faramir let himself be crowded onto the bed.

 

Faramir at five years old had resembled Boromir at five years old remarkably, but they distinguished themselves later in life as they built themselves around their work. Faramir’s body had grown to draw his bow, the hard muscles of his back shoring up his wider shoulders, but Boromir’s legs were stronger, which he thought the finer feature. He was not so good that he could lie with another man, even one so beloved, and neglect to compare himself favorably.  

 

Boromir heard the hard callouses of his brother’s hands rasp against his sides, his hips and finally his buttocks, where his skin was so rarely touched. He groaned in satisfaction, and when Faramir smiled he began to move.

 

He did not remember falling asleep, but then he woke in the middle of the night. He was physically satisfied and otherwise uncomfortable, for the room was hot, and the lamps had been burning since sunset.

 

He went to Faramir’s windows first, and opened one to find that the evening’s rain rain had long since stopped. Then he put out the lights and went back to the bed. Faramir did not notice him, either leaving or returning, and Boromir smiled. They were neither of them soldiers when they were at home, trusting the safety and comfort of their father’s house.

 

It took him only a moment to go back to sleep, and he slept comfortably until the sudden morning, when the Steward of Gondor entered shouting, with a company of praetorians at either hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Q: Is Harondor real? A: I guess so I found it in the Tolkien wiki  
> 2\. Q: That was too much about Hams. A: You're right and I'm sorry  
> 3\. Q: Did Denethor actually say catch them doozing it? A: Yes he's a total sicko  
> 4\. Q: Why can't Denethor check in using the Palantir? A: it's got safe-search on  
> 5\. Q: Why do they need rationed water if they're literally camped by a river A: IT'S BRACKISH ?? ??? ? ? ??  
> 6\. Q: Did Hams jack it to the incest window A: Yeah but like later

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I tried for like a whole 30 minutes to think hard about military hierarchy in Gondor and then, clearly, I totally gave up.   
> 2\. Incest Consultant Sath is responsible for 100% of the armor words, even "armor"  
> 3\. Hamborn and Hamrod are cousins. They live at the Hamfast. Hamborn's father's name is Hamwen. They do not enjoy ham.  
> 4\. "Sire, it is time" was the customary phrase used to wake the king at versailles so like, in case you missed that Boromir is the fanciest guy in gondor  
> 5\. Sorry Lancelot! I'm just kidding I'm not sorry! This is a fanfiction about courtly incest love.


End file.
